Chill for the same outcome

A couple of years ago, I lived in Atlanta, Georgia, right next to Piedmont Park.

There’s an outdoor basketball court perched on a hill overlooking the skyline. On weekday evenings, it’s packed. Perfect for a washed-up hooper (that’s me) to get some good runs in.

So a few times a week, I’d march home from the WeWork office on Peachtree Street, sling my backpack off, chug a glass of grape juice, throw on a pair of shorts, and kiss my fiancé on the forehead — so I could dart to the court before it filled up like Times Square on NYE.

(Not much has changed since childhood, just replace with my mom’s forehead)

Arriving at the court early was critical in my case for two factors worth mentioning: this was Atlanta and I was white (actually still am). If I didn’t play in the first game, there’s a good chance I wouldn’t get picked up at all. Discrimination is alive and well. But I get it. If I saw me waiting on the sidelines, I wouldn’t pick me either.

I left it all out on the court that first game. I mean — diving for loose balls (on concrete), throwing elbows while fighting for rebounds, face as red as a raspberry type of effort. All to prove to my brothers from other mothers that I belong on the court with them.

The game would finish and I’d be dog-tired. First team to twelve points wins. I’d tally in my head how many I scored: six or less. No matter what. Never more than six.

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After a few months of this, I noticed my childlike enthusiasm to hoop was dwindling. I must have started to mentally link the basketball court with being totally wiped out physically, mentally, even emotionally while trying to prove myself to others.

So one day I decided to take a different approach. I would still play, but chill. Not try to prove anything to anyone. Take it easy, smooth and slow. OK, not super slow, but dialing it back to 50 percent of my usual raspberry faced effort.

And ahhh… what a difference it made. I was relaxed and smiling and soaking it all in. Barely breaking a sweat.

Childhood memories came flooding in. This was the game I came to love when I was eight. I observed the elation when one of my teammates hit a contested jumper. They loved this game as much as me. Not for money. Not to impress scouts. But just for the pure joy of playing the game.

My teammate stole the ball from his man and launched a full court pass. I took a moment to appreciate the scene — a hawk was circling above the court looking for its next meal. Basketball soaring through the sticky summer air.

And then the ball smacked me right between the eyebrows. I can still remember the imprint it left on my forehead. I had to chuckle at what my fiancé would say when I got home.

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I’m usually trying so hard to prove myself to others, always pushing myself to squeeze out a couple more drops of effort. It was so nice to chill for once. I felt I could play forever, without ever burning out.

When the game finished, I tallied my total: five points.

Wait — what?!? Could that be right? Yep. I double-checked. Five points, as compared to my previous best: six.

So apparently all of that intense, raspberry-faced, agressive style of hooping only helped me score one more point. I could just chill and practically get the same outcome.

And what a difference in experience! To play the same game, score nearly the same amount of points, but one way leaves me wiped out, the other, relaxed.

I think about that game often. When I notice I’m getting all worked up trying to prove the doubters wrong and driving myself to the brink of collapse, I remember that day on the court when I dialed back my effort by 50 percent. It’s been shocking how often everything gets accomplished just as well and just as effectively, with what feels like half the effort.

Which then makes me realize that much of my effort was a complete waste. Because all that unnecessary huffing and puffing just made me feel like I was proving myself.

Photo by Keith Tan on Unsplash